Whose Headspace?
by Ink On Paper
Summary: Tony worries about Ziva . . . .


**A/N: So there's a lot of speculation as to when (or if, even though a when has more Tiva potential) Ziva will suffer a mental/emotional break down (in which DiNozzo better be there to comfort her. . . ) but what if she doesn't? I mean, I know she isn't superhuman, especially this season (which is totally awesome), but she is still a tough ninja chick. . . . So this piece is told from Tony's POV and I may have the tense a little flippy between past and present, so bare with me please. And as for the mention of antidepressants and PTSD . . . If anyone reading this knows someone or is someone in this boat, well, you are incredibly brave. (I personally have an anxiety disorder, so I can relate. Sort of.) But I digress, hope you like, Kit. (and do review if you** **like :^)) **

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing and am affiliated with nothing.**

Whose Headspace?

My stomach lurched as the elevator began its jerky ascent, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the hand railing. I scowled at my reflection in the lacquered wood of the elevator walls, all polished perfection. A big, purple bruise was darkening under my left eye, not yet throbbing, but most definitely building momentum. Gunshots were still echoing in my ears, reports of Gibbs' SIG, a ringing memento of the past twenty-four hours.

It was supposed to be a simple recon: Go in, get the intel, get out. The bad guys weren't supposed to have back-up, the back-up weren't supposed to have enough illegitimate ammo to run a battalion for a few days.

I've been framed for murder, which is understandable, I mean, cops are often framed, it isn't that uncommon of an occurrence -until it happens more than once. It's like curse, I guess, though it has been a little more than year since my previous unprovoked stint in the slammer. . . . Unfortunately, my karma must be seriously out of kilter because in substitution for the murder accusations, being taken hostage by hostile parties seems to the new norm.

I was tied to a chair (again) for a good twenty-four hours, lapsing in and out of consciousness, because apparently I'm prone mild concussions after several well-dealt cuffs to the head, cursing my stupidity. Because I was offered additional back-up in full awareness that the enemy outnumbered Ziva and myself -in my defense, though, I was under the misleading impression that the opposition only overpowered us two to one. And really Ziva was perfectly capable of taking out three guys in under a minute. . . . But twenty gang members with surplus artillery versus two sufficiently (had we been taking down the original four guys) armed federal agents? Yeah, our odds were not looking too good.

My being knocked out in the first five minutes helped substantiate this previous notion.

So when I came to I was once again tied to a chair, Ziva equally bound across from me, completely devoid of emotion. This scene should not invoke such a recent wash of déjà vu. She was pissed, I could tell, the animosity emanating off her waves, but the rest of her face was closed off entirely. And suddenly my concerns seemed to dwarf into nothingness. . . .

We were only held hostage at gunpoint for less than what surmounted to be day when Gibbs finally came barging in, two dozen members of the SWAT team, several uniformed cops, and a slew of NCIS agents. And McGee.

Within five minutes the place was swarming with angry law enforcement, Gibbs drop kicking the guy with the machete, McGee frantically handcuffing the perp in the bossman's wake. He made it to me first, but I hushedly refused to be untied until Ziva was free. And it was then that Gibbs whirled around, steel eyes landing on my partner, sitting upright in a toppled over chair, sprinting to her aid. He carefully rebalanced her chair before swiftly slicing her bonds, quickly glancing her over before returning to free me as well.

And so now we stood, side by side, hours later, in the silent confines of an elevator. She had been fine at the crime scene, totally balanced, as if she had no former negative experiences with being taken hostage. No hysterics, no raging massacre, scarcely a blink.

I hazard a glance at her, still and quiet next to me. Her left index finger is in a splint courtesy of Ducky and there are angry scratches on her palms where she fell, long after I did, upon our initial ambush. A dark bruise is blossoming across her chest, staining her collarbone purple. But her face is calm, her hair messily restrained in a loose bun, the only thing markedly different about her countenance is the deep gash at her temple. The sleeve to her shirt is torn at the shoulder, and I find myself focusing on this until the bright ding of the elevator announces our arrival. Because, after all, the room Vance booked for surveillance was paid in advance through tomorrow, and it is a five star hotel, and "you and David deserve it." Gibbs only assented to this due to the fact that the room has two separate beds, divided by a generous amount of carpet, and we're both too sore and too tired to do anything anyway.

"Tony!" Ziva's voice snaps me out of my reverie, my eyes refocusing on her as she stands several feet in front of me, in all her golden glory. She narrows her eyes, "You have been watching me like a vulture for the past five hours. Now what do you want?"

"Like a hawk," I correct, "I've been watching you like a hawk."

"So you admit it!" she exclaims triumphantly and I stifle a groan.

"Look," I say, rubbing my unbandaged hand across my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. "If we're gonna get into this tonight, I'm gonna need some painkillers."

She perches on her bed, fixing me with a gaze that dares me to try and divert her attention. "I have aspirin. On the counter in the bathroom." And I get up to retrieve it and find more than aspirin.

"Hey Ziva?" I appear in the doorway of the bathroom, seeing her differently once again. She looks back at me, eyebrows raised in question, genuinely curious. I glanced down at the innocuous orange bottle cradled in my palm and take a breath. "What is this?" I hold up my evidence, the pills rattling an emphasis to my question.

Something shifts in her eyes, something dissolves and something hardens. And it only takes a second. It only takes a second for her to school her shock into a more neutral expression, as she so platonically states, "It is a bottle of medication."

"It's Prozac. It's prescribed to you," my words feel constricted in my throat.

Ziva had risen, gliding over to me, stopping to where we're nearly toe to toe. She cocks her head to the side, mask of indifference firmly in place. "And it is mine," she admits dismissively. "Can I have it back?" And she holds her hand out, palm up, patiently.

I stare down at her in bewilderment before grinding out, "For what?"

"Posttraumatic stress disorder."

"PTSD?" I splutter.

Ziva cranes her head back getting a better vantage point to study me as I simultaneously study her. Her dark brows knit together, forehead furrowing. Slowly, she says, "I do not understand why you are . . . . freaking out."

I drop the bottle into her hand, brushing past her, migraine protesting. I turn back to face her where she still stands, unmoving, taken aback. "Why am I freaking out? What is the matter with you? Why didn't you say anything? How long?" I was throwing questions, accusations, implications, at her without abandon, which, in hindsight was probably not the wisest choice as Ziva had a tendency to get bristly.

"October. I was diagnosed in October," she hisses, defensive. She's glowering at me now, her jaw stiff, body rigid.

October. She'd been suffering through this alone since October. Nausea was slowly creeping up on me, I never noticed the difference. I'm her freaking partner, the guy who could read her the best, and I didn't even, couldn't even. . . . What do I think? That she's Wonder Woman? That she's this inhuman, invincible, fearless assassin? She isn't a ninja, she isn't a robot. She is human. Totally and utterly human. . . . Ducky refused to let me see what little he had of her medical forms, but I'm not ignorant. She was away from us for four months, most of that time spent in the company of sadistic terrorists -what they did to her, well, she refuses to say, but it doesn't take much imagination to piece the horrors together. I still suffer from summer induced insomnia, and I was only there a handful of days. And I know what they did to _me_.

"Would you calm down?" she demands, stamping her foot -which is a more menacing action than given credit.

So I sit down on the bed I had claimed as mine three days ago. "You've been going through hell, Ziva, all alone. And I need to calm down?" I have now reverted to sarcasm and thus is the point of no return. I'm mad at her for keeping quiet, I'm mad at me for being an idiot, I'm mad at the men that caused this entire domino effect, life crashing and balking around her and me and everyone else. I'm scared, for her, for me, for what was and what is and what could be. And I'm sad, sad because Ziva doesn't deserve this. No one deserves this.

She crouches down before me, listening quietly, not once interrupting my tirade. And when the flow of words are finally spent, she regards me with a renewed calm. Which unsettles me.

"Tony," she says tentatively, pausing in case I haven't completely exhausted my rant. "Tony, will you stop, please? I am-"

"Spare my sanity and do not say you are fine."

"I am, though. I understand what happened to me was hell, believe me I know. And I know you know. But you have been anticipating a mental breakdown of some sort and I just don't think that is going to happen. . . . It is possible, yes, but not inevitable. I do have trouble sleeping sometimes and I do have moments where I flashback -but never very long. I have had panic attacks, but I had those before I ever even came stateside. I am fine, honestly. . . . So stop treating me like a basket case!"

I stare at her, trying to decipher the encrypted message her eyes conceal (simultaneously proud that she got the basket thing right) but only earnestness is apparent. I run my good hand through my hair, sighing. "You'd tell me if . . . ." I trail off, letting her fill in the blanks.

She smirks, "If you need to admit me? . . . . I promise to come to you if I need anything."

"Okay."

And then that mischievous glint enters her eyes and I'm suddenly wary again. She stands up in one fluid, graceful movement. "The past is the _past_, Tony. I've atoned with it. I am here now and how I got here doesn't matter because I am _here_. . . . And you're here too. . . . . It's your headspace that should be the cause for concern."

"My headspace is fine, thank you very much."

"Here," she lifts her ruined shirt, revealing her torso. Her skin is smooth and tan and healthy, pulled taunt over her toned stomach. She pivots slowly, letting me see the concave of her sides, the plains of her back. "Not a scar on me," she announces and I point out the burn on her hip ("Cigarette. Not mine. I was sixteen."), the pale mark just under her ribcage ("Old bullet wound, I was twenty."), the ropey scar across her hip ("Bomb shrapnel from an op in Egypt."). . . . . "Tony, I left Somalia in Somalia."

_And I left you in Israel_, I want to say. But I don't because she's right (shocker, I know) and I'm more hung up over her mental health than she is. And I guess she really is fine, for now at least, and besides, if she wasn't, I'd know. Because she's my partner. And she'd tell me. Because we've tried the lying thing and have come to the mutual decision to stick with the truth -it's not as messy. Or as painful.

So I stand up and hug her, and she's warm and soft and whole in my arms, and I sigh for the millionth time tonight.

And then she leans back and I don't know what she's gonna do. . . .

And then she slaps me softly on the cheek, murmuring, "Laila tov."

And I decide to move on, leave the past where it's supposed to be and let myself go where I'm supposed to be. Which is here. With Ziva.


End file.
